


baby, honey, darling

by BelieveMePlease



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: (many) slice(s) of life, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, M/M, Nicknames, Pet Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 07:28:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14744528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelieveMePlease/pseuds/BelieveMePlease
Summary: Owen has accumulated a lot of different names for George over the years





	baby, honey, darling

It would be hard to remember exactly which one came first. A question in his memory similar to those of the media who seemed to yearn to know just how long they'd know each other down to the minute. George could probably conjure an answer up, the same way he does to alleviate the prying, but there would remain a luring curiosity in his mind over the tenuous accuracy. Still, the patterns formed through the courses of his reminiscence -linear or not- could tell the tale of every word Owen ever spoke; the ones that meant the most down to the connecting conjunctions everyone uses a hundred times a day. Given their time together this is hardly surprising, no wonder people were always so interested in just how long it had been, but the fact that George could account for every single petting endearment is a statistic, a knowledge, that belongs to him alone. Yes, Owen has accumulated a lot of different names for George over the years. Some he hears every day, others are a rarity, but every single one guards a certain place in George's heart.    

If he had to give a first, George suspects it would be something along the lines of 'mate'. When they'd first met, forced together by their common interests and in time their neighbouring homes, Owen had shown a fascinating determination to prove his approachable friendliness. Back in Oldham, George hadn't known him long enough to realise that he was the only one on the receiving end of this softer side -everyone else was treated with the same fiery grit that had got Owen in trouble time and time again. George doubts he could have been much more than twelve the first time he'd found himself blushing under the smooth praise he'd now become so accustomed to.

The game had been awful. It had been over for them before half-time really, but George still found himself, chest heaving, after a fierce, although futile, attempt at damage limitation. There were clumps of mud an grass dirtying him everywhere and George cringed as he stood on the touch line trying to pull the worst of it from his fingers before he engaged in any handshakes. He didn't know why he was bothering -everyone else was just as bad.

"Hi,"

George looked up at the interruption, a mighty presence suddenly casting a shadow over him even more than the rain clouds looming above. When he caught eyes with the massive thirteen standing before him he almost scowled. For as long as he could remember, his dad had always told him that no one person can carry a whole team, that every player made up their own essential component and George had always made a point of believing him. That match, that huge, towering thirteen had made him question all of that.

"Hi?" George spoke slowly, precariously. Ever the sceptic, he narrowed his eyes. This lock had battered them and he knew it, George had taken enough of the hits to appreciate the sheer force.

The lock just smiled, rather annoyingly if George did say so himself, and stuck out his hand. George glared at it warily for a prolonged moment before reluctantly appeasing the gesture and shaking -his dad would kill him if he found out George had ignored his sportsmanship.

"You played so well, mate, honestly. I'm proper impressed," the thirteen seemed to pour all his victorious vigour into the handshake while he talked, tight squeeze refusing to let George go who just stared at him as though he'd gone mad.

"Thanks?" George didn't quite believe him, this kid was clearly a bit over enthusiastic. George assumed he probably came from a rugby family like himself, most other players he'd met didn't really care for the game once they were off the pitch, and certainly wouldn't praise another player so fervently. Especially not one who'd played the way George had that match -not his best that's for sure, "You were pretty good too, I guess," George chose his words carefully, this kid definitely didn't need an ego boost.

"Really?" The lock's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree and George wanted to frown again. Everyone knew the ref had had to speak to this kid at half-time, tell him to play at fifty percent, there was no need to pretend he didn't know his ability, "Thanks mate! My dad said it wasn't my best."

 _No kidding,_ George thought. If that wasn't the thirteen's best, he didn't want to know what was let alone play against it, "Yeah, well, mine neither."

"You'd definitely would've had us beat if it had been, mate," was that a hint of a wink? George flushed beet red, dropping his gaze to the floor in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. Someone really needed to take this guy down a peg while he was still young.

"Owen!" Both boys looked back at the sound of the Wigan coach's yell. _Owen._ Why did something in George hope this wouldn't be the last he'd see of this Owen? Anyone would think he was a masochist after the battering he's just taken.

"Sorry, I've got to go," Owen beamed once again as he backed away, "I'll see you around..."

"George," he supplied quietly, still a little stunned at the unsuspected approach.

"George." Owen winked again. God, George didn't even know him and he already hated him, "See you, mate!"

They might not be playing league anymore, and they definitely know each other a lot better, but Owen's belligerent teasing hasn't gone anywhere. If George ever hears 'mate' rear its ugly head now, he doesn't even have to look to know that there's some kind of cocky grin plastered all over Owen's face.

It's not that George is one to play obedient, if Owen asks him to get his drink most of the time he won't hesitate to inflict a whack to the back of his head with a sharp instruction that he can get it himself. But Owen was so content and happy in his little Sarries clique and George already felt enough like an intruder tucked under Owen's arm on the edge of the pub booth. At the beginning of tournaments, the club segregation is still a little more prominent while the squad gets used to being in such close proximity to the people they're rivalling back in the Premiership. George knows all the Sarries lads well enough, but anyone would feel like an outsider in the carefully rehearsed banter of club mates.  Although Ben and Johnny are hanging around somewhere, a familiar comfort George could flee to, Owen keeps him in tight grip, not wanting to be without him tonight. The request from Owen for another beer was a welcome excuse to get away and breathe for a minute.

When he returned, pints in hand, the determined beam of Owen's flash of teeth almost made George roll his eyes. Owen's thriving off the very banter that has George feeling suffocated, "Thanks, mate!" he proclaims when George puts the glasses down on the table.

The lads laugh when George roughly shoves at his shoulder, "Fuck off, _mate,_ " George grins just as hard as he leans down to plaster a wet kiss right on Owen's lips making him blush at the peering eyes of their given surroundings. At least he could give as good as he got.

By the time they'd moved to Harpenden, George remembers, the generic friendliness of 'mate' had more or less completely given way to slightly more endearing terms. Owen still seeks to set George above the rest, call out to him in ways that could only possibly be addressed to him. Even back then Owen sought to make a point of reserving a softness for George that no one else would see the light of.

It was a match they'd been waiting a long time for, the whole season to be precise. St George's had done surprisingly well, something several of the coaches and PE teachers attributed to a flourishing axis at ten and twelve, and the school finals had crept up on them quickly. George could tell Owen was nervous by the way his leg had bounced the entire bus trip to the grounds; he'd made his attempts to comfort, but as an awkward thirteen year old and just as nervous himself, there hadn't been a whole lot he could do.

They'd been a little better through the warm up. Both their butterflies settling as they went through the religious mantra of their passing drills between each other, even joking around a  little amongst themselves. All that calm seemed to shatter, though, when George finally got a look at the opposing team. George had gotten used to being the smallest, found ways to utilise it, even, while he was on the pitch. Keep out the way of the biggest forwards, dodge around the backs, and if you have to tackle make sure you're well braced. That, however, didn't seem like it was going to be possible.

"You alright?" Owen asked as he watched the colour drain from George's face, glancing round to see what could have caused the sudden change in his friend's demeanour.

George's stomach and mouth dropped in unison when he caught the flash of a number ten on the back of one of the massive players. The last thing he needed was an opposite number the size of that -he hadn't thought fly halves were meant to be too big.

A comforting arm wrapped around his waist briefly and gave him a quick squeeze, "You'll be okay, buddy,"

"You sure about that?" George laughed lightly, but Owen could see the slight wavering of fear behind his eyes, "I think I'm gonna die."

"You're not gonna die, bud," Owen ruffled the mess of George's slightly overgrown hair, "At least you better not. Who else is gonna do my homework for me? I'd get in so much trouble if it weren't for you."

That put a small smile back on George's face, but he didn't reply. Instead he just cast his gaze to the ground and breathed a little heavier whilst he tried not to imagine the damage his body may endure in the game to come. He really hoped his size wouldn't run them into trouble, he was already used to getting enough stick for it.

"Hey," Owen nudged George's shoulder with his own until the younger finally looked up at him, "I'll sort out anyone who tries to come at you. I promise I'll look after you, buddy."

"Thanks, Faz," George smiled wryly. He didn't want to have to rely on Owen to take care of him, but it was good to have the safety net.

They didn't win, but that didn't matter. Owen still played with his hair on the coach journey home and grinned tiredly as he praised him, "You played good, bud."

Now, 'buddy' isn't a term Owen uses often. It's more a means of endearment in front of the lads, one that's more friendly than it is loving. The chummy nature of the name would make George a little miffed at its use if it didn't set him so far off from everyone else. He wishes Owen was a bit more comfortable being open about them in front of their team, it's not like they're any kind of well-kept secret, but he still can't help the way his heart flutters when he's endeared. Even if it is more reserved than it should be.

Training in the lead up to the nations is the same tireless nuisance every year. They're all immensely thankful to be there, selection never secure especially under such scrutiny from the coaching team, but the scattered training in the early weeks and the tedious travelling between club town and Pennyhill drags on painfully. Especially on such days, where George can't seem to kick for the life of him and it just had to be the slot set aside for kicking drills.

The constant gaze on him doesn't help much. Seemingly, the rest of the backs have drawn bored of their own drills and are settled for more or less staring while passing a ball between them now and then and waiting for the afternoon to be over. George is paling in comparison to the near on perfect records of Owen and Elliot that day, but he'd grown almost accustomed to the misses at this point. As soon as there's an England rose on him, any confidence he may have in green and red or blue, black and white drains away from him in seconds.

Most of the attempts had been made from right on the touchline, where it's no secret that he needs the most practice. Five in a row he'd missed and he has to bite his lip to keep the embarrassment from flooding over into his expression. Catching eyes with Owen on the other side of the field, the older flashes an encouraging smile and a nod of the head. It doesn't give George much more hope than he had before, but he smiles back at least.

Set up, breathe, aim, breathe, run, arm, kick.

The strike feels good the second his boot collides with the hard rubber of the ball. George tilts his head to get the best angle as he watches it sail beautifully between the posts. He can't help the little twitch of his lips. Finally.

Owen was already jogging to him, "Nice one, buddy!" He calls out across the pitch, patting George's head when he reaches him. It's one of only fourteen place kicks he lands all day, but that wasn't important.

Harpenden ended up, really, being the beginnings of how they could be described today. Many of their usual mannerisms, the way they speak to each other, their connections both ball in hand and far from the field. George remembers some of the names and affections that came about in what could now only be described as their 'courting' stage. They still flirt outrageously, mostly to entertain themselves on the eye rolls it draws from those around them. Back then it was just for them, carefully choosing their words to try and portray feelings they weren't even sure about themselves.

George didn't want to move. Changing school was awful, none of his mates had ever cared about keeping contact so he always ended up feeling alone. Moving house was tedious and hard work, and he always liked his new room a little less than he had the last one. And this time there was Owen. George hadn't had a best friend before, but he was pretty sure this was as close as he'd come. In the weeks leading up to the dreaded date he'd been pretty glum, but with just days to go the misery felt all encompassing.

"What's up with you?" Owen pushed George's shoulders lightly, running up behind him with a ball clasped tightly under his bicep. It was still light and warm out despite the evening breeze. They'd spent countless nights like this, passing between them until they could do it with their eyes closed. Thinking that this was the last one brought a lump up in George's throat. A pain impossible to swallow.

"I dunno, nothing?" George shrugged and Owen fixed him with a look. It was a pathetic attempt at denial, he was well aware, but they'd more or less avoided talking about it until now and George almost wanted to keep it that way. Feelings were something they only alluded to, not actively discussed.

"Come on, you're bloody miserable! What is it?" Owen pried. He slumped down heavily on the curb and peered curiously up at George. It wasn't a height exchange they were used to, and clearly Owen wasn't a fan as he tugged on George's wrist until his friend settled next to him.

The way Owen pressed into him was slightly new. George was used to the weight of his body next to his own, but the press of their shoulders and thighs was an unfamiliar comfort. George thought he liked it, maybe a little more than he should, and it made his voice a little quaky as he spoke, "I don't think I want to go. No, I mean, I know I don't want to. I like it here, I like school, I like my house, I like..." George trailed off before he could let the _I like you_ he was threatening slip free.

Owen snorted in a way that had George worried. There was a reason they didn't talk too much beyond the love of the game, "Only you would actually like school," Owen teased with a smile, which alleviated George's heart a little, although it didn't quite reach his eyes. He shrugged, "I don't want you to go either, if it helps."

He was determinedly not looking at George as he twiddled the ball between his hands, gazing at it like it was the most interesting thing he'd ever held. Maybe George was the closest Owen had had to a best friend too.

"You're not going to just abandon me though, right? We'll still talk, yeah?" George stared at Owen until his friend was forced to return it. There was a vulnerability in the question, in George's expression, that Owen didn't like -he needed to fix it.

"Yeah of course," Owen made sure his eyes crinkled with his smile this time, determined to reassure, "Don't worry, love, I won't forget about you."

Bless Owen's northern heart. It was something his mum must have called him a thousand times, the first thing he could grapple to try and project the way he felt as best he could. It made George beam bashfully, so he took it as a small victory. He may have wanted to hear it as much as Owen had wanted to say it. Maybe the way George leaned forward spoke volumes. 

"Yeah?"

"I promise."

Amidst their whispers, they had tilted together, heads tipped in slightly. Alarm bells should have been blazing in both their minds, but they weren't. Encroached on each other's space, breathing each other's air, Owen leaned forward himself.

"George!" From just inches apart they drew back suddenly, maternal calls had the power to ruin any potential moment. She was too far away to see anything, so George stayed put for a moment, staring at the way Owen's eyes traced his lips. _Best friend_ , George reminded himself. They shouldn't do anything to ruin that, the distance had a good enough shot, let alone this.

"Coming!" George called into the minimal air between them. He stood quickly, barely looking back at Owen. Best to do it quickly, like ripping off a plaster, "So, uh, I'll see you around then."

"Yeah, see you around, love."

That made walking away a lot harder.

Their goodbyes still involve a whole lot of petting, endearing. They've had too much practice at them over the years, the struggles of returning from junior tours to distant homes, playing for clubs that never quite felt close enough together. Most of them now are small, a week without seeing each other at most -the longest was Owen's tour with the Lions- but the same comfort is always used. A protection from worry in George's heart.

Finding the balance between clubs and internationals is one Eddie clearly takes a lot of pride in. Time and time again players will be sent back to their clubs from the England camp -whether it's from poor performance in the week's training or by specific request from their coach. It's not a threat to his position, George should realise, it happens to all the lads. Ben's coming too, which is reassuring, but it does mean leaving Owen behind in London, a two and a half hour trip up the M1 which is a distance he'd rather not have between them.

"You ready to go?" Owen asks, fiddling with his phone while he watches George glance over their hotel room once more, looking for anything he may be forgetting.

"I think so, yeah, I'll go find Ben in a sec," George picks up his kit bag and chucks it somewhere close to the door. Slowly, he crawls up into Owen's space, lying almost entirely on top of him and plucking the phone right out of his hands. Owen pouts sarcastically, before smiling warmly at the look on George's face.

"Alright, alright, I'll miss you too, love, don't look so gloomy," he leans up and presses a short kiss to George's lips, "It's just a few days."

It's George's turn to pout at that, "Too long," he complains, kissing Owen with a tiny bit more vigour, but pushing himself up before it can go any further and leaving Owen chasing upwards, "Love you."

"You too, lovey."

Before their relationship had flourished, the names had been as sweet as they could without completely giving away bubbling feelings that had Owen too confused to face them. Friendly was paramount, until it didn't have to be anymore. It wasn't until they got into under sixteen's together, although only slightly, older and more at terms with themselves, that Owen lost all notions of restraint.

Kisses had become part of their routine; hidden moments in the changing room, tucked away in hotel rooms late at night, waking up first thing in the morning when they should have been in separate rooms. It was new and exciting, a development that had been threatening for a year or so -no matter the distance between them. By the time they'd been thrown into the junior international team together, an unexpected reunion, both had been itching for the climax of the insinuation in their year's worth of suggestive texts and late-night phone calls. There was no pressure, they'd agreed, no labels, the team came first. But that didn't stop the thrill in George's spine every time Owen dragged him away, whispered things to him that made him shiver. It was a warm happiness George hadn't known they'd been capable of making for themselves.

Doors creaking were a common sound in their hotel. The part of Cardiff they were in was nice enough, but it's fair to say that England's sponsors definitely didn't think they'd be getting much out of a bunch of fourteen to sixteen year olds chucking a ball around. However, the addition of second hand light from the hallway flooding into the room along with the unforgiving sound of the door was enough to have George peering up from his night time read. It was only an hour or so past curfew. He was early.

"You're gonna get us caught," George deadpanned putting the book down on the table next to the bed and dimming the lamp a little. Intimacy first, eye strain later.

With what could only be described as an unceremonious flop, Owen landed himself ungracefully next to George on the bed, leaned over to peck lightly at his cheek and grinned like spoiled child, "Be worth it though," he poked George in the tummy and revelled in the way he squirmed a little.

"Won't be worth it when one of us gets kicked off and believe me, I would not hesitate to drop you right in it if it means keeping my place on this team," George nudged Owen off and crossed his arms petulantly. They both knew he was lying. Whatever this was meant a lot more to the both of them than either of them were letting on, wouldn't let themselves be vulnerable. It was all so new and they were so very inexperienced; self-preservation was all they knew.

"So determined; how sexy," Owen winked and encroached into George's personal space once again. George rolled his eyes, as long as he'd known him, this kid had known no boundaries, "Anyway, neither of us would get kicked off. We're far too valuable."

Resisting the urge to cackle sarcastically at that was difficult, but George was hyper aware of the occupied bedrooms sandwiching his own, especially at an hour when people were far less likely to be asleep yet. He squeezed one of Owen's shoulder's and sat up straight to face him properly, "You're much too cocky, you know that?"

"Cocky?" Owen beamed and wiggled his eyebrows. George wanted to slap him.

"Good God I hate you. Why do I put up with this?" Honestly, he wasn't expecting to be swept up quite so intensely. He almost squeaked at the way Owen hauled him to his chest and squeezed him tightly, legs crossing atop Owen's lap so they were sat in some odd couples yoga position. But to them it was their comfort. George felt so tiny sat there like that, entirely embraced, but different from the dwarfed feeling he got around other players. More a warm safety than patronisation to be fought against. 

"Because." Was all Owen supplied, and really it was quite fitting. There was no other reason other than because. Because he wanted to. With Owen he felt big and strong enough to finally stand up and have some self-belief, while simultaneously feeling as small as a baby bird in the homely comfort of its nest. Serious or not, whatever they were still had the power to do that to him. Sighing, mostly to himself, Owen nuzzled against the side of George's still too long hair gently and breathed him in. Clearly the feeling was mutual, "Hello little one."

"Hello yourself," George smiled. While he wasn't completely clueless, Owen was no love guru by any means, so how he always knew the things to say, the names to use, exactly when and where, George would never know. It had always been that way.

Unfortunately for George, a decade hasn't blessed him with too much more height than he had back then; most people make him feel small, but none in the way Owen does. 'Little one' is still used commonly in intimate care. It's not condescending or infantilising, not like the feeling George gets from most of his other teammates. They don't mean harm, but under Owen's directed attention, George feels untouchable.

Game nights are expected often in the camp, but not quite as expected as the inevitable partition between the forwards and backs -so much for team bonding. Though, the ease of being surrounded by slightly less bullish conversation and banter is welcomed by most of them at such a late hour. They're gathered in Johnny's room, something the pair of them had fully exploited, using the winger's belongings to aid in their usual relentless mocking. That had been a couple of hours ago now, though, and George has long abandoned the endless rounds of President in favour of curling up on Johnny's bed to rest his tired body and eyes. Eventually, he feels the bed dip next to him, he can tell Owen must be tired from the way he leaves a few short kisses on his temple, they may only be with the backs, but even so. George's eyes aren't open and he's facing the wrong way, so he can't tell if the others are looking, but it's not a public display Owen would normally be fond of. Still, his hand finds a comfortable position in George's hair and it remains carding there.

"Adorable ain't he?" It's Jack, of course it's Jack, ever the tease. George doesn't properly register, mind so close to the soft embrace of sleep, it's only the annoying cackles of his ex-club mates that bring him round slightly. Ant really needs to learn the meaning of quiet, he thinks.

"So cute," he vaguely hears JJ agree with a laugh and Danny's wordless noise to concur amidst his giggles. George whines aloud to make them aware of his consciousness and his disgruntlement at their mocking. He's well aware of the childishness of his position, Owen's petting only making him look and preen even more like a kitten. The last thing he needs is to be made a mockery -it's far too late in the day for that.

The laugh that comes next is too familiar, one that's been plucking at George's patience for more years than he cares to count. It almost makes him smile, "Leave him alone," Ben supplies when his giggle fit has died down, but George can hear the glint in his voice and internally groans, "Baby Fordy needs his beauty sleep."

"Alright!" Owen finally interjects, nails scraping at the back of George's scalp in a way that almost makes him purr. The next words are quiet and spoken close to his ear; George doubts they're muted enough not to be heard by their teammates, but Owen is clearly too tired to care what they think, "Come on, little one, let's get you to bed."

If their room wasn't right next door Owen would be shaking George until he woke up enough to walk back, but exhaustion is evident enough in both of them to stop Owen bothering. Instead, he lifts George, holding him tight under the thighs, George whining once again at being disturbed, arms wrapping languidly round Owen's neck and his head lolling to his shoulder. The, annoying, Bath duo are instantly at it again with their obnoxious laughter -to be fair they do look a little ridiculous, Owen cradling George like a toddler. Were he any more awake, George would be blushing profusely. The kiss Owen leaves to his forehead makes the noise drown away.

That's the care Owen has always shown. Whether it's through his words or his actions, both, George always feels warm under his protection. Some names are reserved for this specifically, for when George is ill or hurt or crying. George almost doesn't want to hear them, doesn't want to be feeling the weakness he inevitably would be for Owen to use them. Though, when he does, George can't deny the feeling it gives him -may even say it could aid in his healing.

Being ill was the last thing George needed. They'd been itching to get to Italy for so long, their last tour as an under twenty's team, their last tour as a team together as they were. None of them wanted to miss a single second, not even of the most basic training sessions. Yet here he was, just days after landing, tucked away in his hotel room bed while the rest of his team were out proving their potential for selection. He'd decided that, in order to get better and out on the pitch as soon as possible, sleep was going to be best -as much as he hated dozing the day away. It was already sunset by the time he was awoken with a light shake, the sun low in the sky and catching in his eyes as it slipped in through the window. It took him a moment to come round, rolling over to be met with the pitying gaze of Owen, thumb still rubbing over George's arm where he'd shaken him.

"Hey," George cringed at the croak in his voice, throat stinging painfully like it was plagued with razor blades. God he hated this.

"Hey," Owen handed him a mug of Lemsip which George took gratefully and allowed Owen to help him sit up, "How're you doing, honey?"

There was probably honey in the Lemsip, a subconscious association in Owen's mind as he sought to do nothing but console. Neither of them had ever been ill on a tour before, and their injuries were always minor enough, so this, taking care of poorly George, being taken care of by dotting Owen, was new to both of them. Smiling bashfully under the endearment, George hid his expression behind the rim of the mug, sipping slowly and almost sighing in relief as the hot liquid soothed his throat, "Been better,"

"Yeah I bet," Owen smiled apologetically and leaned down to kiss George's lips. He frowned when George flinched away a little.

"I don't think you want to do that, unless you want to get ill yourself,"

Owen just shrugged and pecked George quickly before he could pull away again. He lifted the duvet covering George and slipped underneath himself, it was like a furnace -the Italian sun beating in all day coupled with George's high fever was not a combination for a cool environment- but he didn't mind. Almost instantly George slumped against him, head finding the hard comfort of Owen's shoulder and allowing his body weight to be supported by Owen's chest, "You're boiling, hun, we ought to try and cool you down," his arm wrapped around George's shoulder so he could bring a hand up to rest on his forehead and he took the mug from him, placing it on the bedside table. Going by his body temperature, George really didn't need more heat.

"Feel cold though," George complained, snuggling against the warm body. Just to prove the point, his body shivered dramatically and he pulled the duvet higher up his body to cover his exposed shoulders.

"I know, I know," Owen rubbed his arm soothingly. In reality, he had no idea. He'd comforted George enough times, but that was just when he was sad. When he was sick he could barely look after himself, let alone care for someone else, "Poorly boy,"

George just nodded miserably against Owen's shoulder. Already his eyes were drooping again despite having slept most of the day away. The flu will do that to you. Still, since Owen was back, he was determined not to let his ailed exhaustion take hold, "How 'as training?"

"Same old, same old," the way Owen had taken to holding him tight and pressing soft, even interval kisses to the crown of his head was not helping George on his quest to stay awake one bit. He wiggled a little bit lower and let his ear settle over Owen's chest, steady rhythm of his heartbeat acting as a lullaby, "You're not missing a lot, so just focus on getting better, yeah? Can't have you sitting out the match."

"Okay," George's voice was slow and slurred, muted where his face was squished again Owen's t-shirt.  Forget staying awake, what was the point?

'Honey' is just one of a few Owen saves for those tender moments, calming in the wake of fragility. Since Italy, they've both seen the other through numerous illnesses and injuries, comforted at the saddest times. It's a practice that sooths their own worry as much as it comforts the other -they've become well enough rehearsed over time.

They do a lot of contact training, especially in the week leading up to a match. George isn't the biggest fan, he'd rather save himself from unnecessary bumps and bruises -those are for actual matches to provide. However, he's well aware that it's something they all have to go through and with the first match against Italy just days away they need to be prepared. Running head first into a tackler, especially one as big as Maro, is definitely not George's idea of fun, yet here he is.

Already, there are several scrapes on the backs of his legs from where he's been driven into the dirt over and over and he dreads to think of the purple splotches that he'll be littered with tomorrow. He keeps going, though. The coaches' hard stares are enough to spur him on despite his body screaming at him to stop. Maybe he should listen to the ominous feeling, maybe it is more a warning than just the agitated exhaustion. Yet still, he squares his shoulders once again, catches eyes with Maro to signal he's ready and runs, head down, braced for impact.

The hit of the cushioned tackle pad feels a lot harder than it should when George collides with it. Instantly, the breath is winded straight from his chest and he clatters into the ground with a thud, head ricocheting against the hard mud where it takes the impact of the blow. George's mind immediately feels a little cloudy, the sun suddenly seeming just a bit too bright - he barely registers Maro running to him, the slightly shaky call for "Faz" from the young forward being the only thing that forces him to keep blinking his eyes open. _Ow_. There are a whole crowd of his coaches and teammates around him very quickly and George sits before he can let his eyes slip closed -his head may be spinning, but he's determined to prove he's okay. A warm hand on the small of his back makes him turn his head, mistake. George winces visibly and the hand moves to wrap around his waist and take a hold of his own, gives a comforting squeeze. Owen allows George to lean heavily on him as he helps him clamber to his feet; George thinks he won't be a fan of giving everyone a show, but his head really hurts, much too much for him to care. Slowly, they start to make their way off the pitch, Owen practically holds George up as he wobbles dizzily; even with his mind as bleary as it feels, George knows Owen will be heading him straight for the medics. He really hopes he isn't concussed, it's the last thing he needs so close to the first game.

"Owen," George tries not to slur, he wants to let Owen know he's okay, wants to convince himself more than anything. A head injury would be the worst thing that could happen right at the beginning of the tournament.

"Shh," Owen rubs his thumb on the back of George's hand where it's held in his own, wrapped around George's torso to keep him close and steady while they walk, "Take it easy, honey, you're alright."

Not every names is specifically for loving endearment, however. For his entire rugby life George has been known mostly by variations to his name and surname by all his teammates and Owen is no exception to this. After all, that is what they have been for years -for a long time they had even put that position above anything else. There's something different about the way Owen uses those names, though, a call George waits for above anyone else's. It's still special, even if it is what everyone else uses as well.

There had been several dotted incidents of 'Fordy' being Owen's name of choice for George. It was relatively sparse during juniors, banter and nicknames wasn't anywhere near as prominent with lads dropping in and out the squad constantly, every year could be a whole new team. They had also been so immensely focused on proving themselves, keeping their position, they were almost too scared of it seeming as though they were just there to joke around.

Really, it had come into use when George first came into the senior England camp. Owen had already been with them for a couple of years by then and knew the ins and outs of how the social system worked. No one knew about them and their relationship at that point either, only a few select people even knew about their sexualities, so Owen had aired highly on the side of caution when it came to the way he treated George. At the time, George hadn't wanted anyone to know, so he didn't mind so much, could deal with himself and Owen acting like mates.

George couldn't remember the last time he'd been so nervous. Maybe the JWC final against New Zealand , or maybe his Leicester debut as a frightened sixteen year old, the youngest ever; perhaps it was even as long ago as his first ever junior selection. It was less the importance of his new position, he'd already held it for a long time just at a younger rank, but rather the anxiety of brand new social situations. He'd still yet to even train with the team, let alone interact with them on a human level, and George had no idea what to expect. Of course he had Owen and Ben, even Andy if he really needed, and he'd played with a few of the others as a junior, but they were already established in the team, had their own mates - surely they wouldn't want to spend their time looking after him. He never could quite shake the fear of entering a new social community, all it ever did was bring back awful memories of all the moves and new schools as a kid; ever the outsider.

There was no turning back though, he was already in camp, had already been introduced to the team -a vague glazing over his name and position by the coaches as they went down the list of new players. The next day would be his first time training with the whole team and Owen had briefed him on how important it was to let them get to know him a bit first, so he knew he had to get it over with. Not that it helped the way his heart thundered in his chest. It took him a solid two minutes of standing and staring at the closed door for him to finally gather the courage.

 _Everyone_ was inside. Oh God. The door had already closed behind George, there was no way he could escape without looking like a complete moron. All he could do was try not to look too frantic as he searched the gatherings of every corner, every sofa, over thirty people, looking for any familiar face.

"Fordy!" George could have cried in relief at the sound of just that one voice, rising above the noise of a hundred rowdy grumbles. His head flung round quickly and he sighed when he saw Owen on one of the corner sofas, Ben right next to him, both of them positively beaming as they beckoned him over. They were in one of the biggest groups, of course they were, as long as George had known him, Owen had never had a problem with popularity. It made George's panic pick up a little once again.

When he reached them, however, and the pair shuffled apart slightly on the already too crowded sofa, George's heart could unclench. With Owen's grab of his wrist, he managed to squeeze himself down in between the two of them, almost half on top of both their laps. Owen was quick to hang an arm over his shoulder and George was about to shoot him a hidden warning glare, he did not want any inference being made no matter how friendly the gesture, but Ben copied the movement immediately, arm overlapping with Owen's. He felt so much like their child cuddled between them he could hardly start to worry about the implication of their closeness.

"You excited for tomorrow, Fordy?" Barrett inquired, instantly bringing the attention of the group to George and making him slightly scarlet under the spotlight. Brad was smiling a little too knowingly at him, could almost be described as a smirk -George briefly wondered if he knew about his and Owen's relationship. He knew that the Saracens' captain was one of the select few Owen had entrusted with the truth about his sexuality, maybe he had put more pieces together than they had been aware of. Ben's thumb rubbing comfortingly over his shoulder brought George back into reality from his paranoid wonderings.

"Bit scared if I'm honest," George laughed nervously, cheeks still a touch pink. He had to check himself quickly before he went to burry himself into hiding against Owen; if he was worried about what gossip an arm around his shoulder could spark, a full on cuddle would surely be disastrous.

"What?" Owen gasped, overdramatic, instantly stealing the attention he knew full well was unwanted. George loved him so much, "Nah, he's just being modest, lads, this one in't scared of anything."

"Yeah, you'd better watch out, Faz," Ben smirked and squeezed George's shoulder in order to shake him playfully, "Fordy's after your jersey!"

George was so lucky to have them, both of them.

A lot has changed in four years. It hadn't taken long for George to find his feet amongst sharks and now he slots in every year as though it's his second home. They don't have to worry about an arm around the shoulder anymore either. The stress of coming out to the team, the pressure of keeping things hidden so long had been hard, but they're so much better for it. At this point, it's the norm for the squad to witness them all over each other -Owen likes to try and keep things modest, but he's never been very good at keeping his hands off George, especially not if there's alcohol involved. Which there often is. Some things never change, though, and the use of 'Fordy', more a familiar call than an endearment, in and around the pitch, is something neither of them would see the back of.

They're already 15-27 up, the first round against Italy hadn't been too much of a worry in the first place, but George can tell the whole team is hungry for more, ready to put their mark on the points table and start off the tournament with a solid win under their belts. Owen's line break after George's wide pass happens almost too quick for him to register, but he knows he has to keep up, always has to be there as the affirmed support they never concede. He won't make it, George can see, despite leaping through the main wall of defence, there are more defenders closing in on Owen from both sides. The pass is imperative.

"Fordy!" It's a familiar cross field call, one that surely isn't necessary between them, but one that always comes as an affirmation or request for the assured presence. Owen hasn't even looked at him, George realises, he doesn't need to, one quick glance back for accuracy and suddenly the ball is in George's hands. There may be one defender on his back, but it's too late.

It's Jack and Danny that haul him to his feet, JJ flanking them, all grinning like idiots. No, it isn't a match winning score, but it keeps them comfortable. Owen is quickly barging his way through the surrounding Italians, lost at the wonder of how their defence could have crumbled so easily, he even pushes aside some of their own teammates just to make it to George. The hug is relatively brief, but there's an edge of excitement woven through the way Owen holds him tight.

"Yes Fordy!" Owen exclaims, close into George's ear. George just squeezes hard before he's released, beaming harder as Owen trots off to his position for the restart, glancing back with the flash of a hidden wink. They have a match to win.  

Not every name is good. In fact his own name is often very, very bad. Almost ironic that George never wants to hear 'George', not when it's coming from Owen. It always indicates an unwanted seriousness or argument where there is no room for loving displays or assurance of comfort. Those are the moments that George's wishes he could forget, but some stick much too clear in his memory.

George had known that signing at Bath would be a strain to his relationship. Although they'd talked about it together for hours and hours, discussed how good it could be for his career and how nice it would be to live so close to his mum and dad, even work with him, there was no denying that an almost three hour drive between him and Owen was going to take its toll. Sure, they'd dealt with distance before; remained friends after George had left Harpenden and maintained the constant tease and flirtation every year between junior tours and training camps. But they hadn't been too serious then, it had been fun and childish all the way up until under twenties, until the 'I love you's started to flow. Which had been fine, Leicester and Watford, where Sarries had been at the time, weren't a million miles apart, and an hour and a half was an easy enough drive at the end of Friday training. Even when Saracens moved to Hendon there was barely a noticeable difference. Add at least an extra hour and M1 traffic into the mix and things started getting a little sticky. Not to mention the moods. Moving clubs was tricky, especially when you're quiet and withdrawn from new social situations. Owen knew from his own loan to Bedford that it took a little time to find your feet amongst the new crowd, and he knew that George had missed his brother and Ben painfully. It was ultimately a good sign that George felt comfortable enough with him to show his real emotions; but when they hadn't seen each other for over a week and Owen had just sat on a congested motorway for almost three hours after a day's training, the snappiness was a little hard to swallow.

When he heard his front door open and close, the jiggle of keys hitting his door side cabinet, George had barely been sat down five minutes himself. After a quick shower, he'd just slumped down on the sofa, fully prepared to fall asleep there still hungry. George had nearly completely forgotten his set plans with his boyfriend that weekend. Training had massively overrun and they'd used the Landbridge ground meaning George had had to sit in London Road traffic for forty minutes; he was genuinely glad Owen had come, but all his exhausted state could quite manage was a small grunt of acknowledgement.

"Nice to see you too," Owen remarked, rounding the corner into the living room. It was light and teasingly sarcastic enough that it shouldn't cause concern, but he couldn't quite bite down all the bark that had threatened to seep into his tone. Not that he expected to be greeted with an ambush of hugs and kisses at the door, but the growing itch under his skin made Owen feel he warranted a little more than just a grumble. Still, he leaned down and left a light peck on George's lips nonetheless. It had been a week since they'd had so much as a phone call and Owen was slightly desperate for more than just three Xs at the end of a text, "How're you doing?"

With a huff, George let his head loll back against the sofa, eyes closed without a look at Owen. He shrugged, "Alright."

"Good," Owen drew out, glancing round a little agitated. Even when they'd fought, he couldn't remember the last time they'd felt so awkward -it was supposed to be something they'd gotten past a long time ago, "So..."

He really didn't mean to sigh in quite such an agitated way, didn't mean to put Owen off so much. But his head was pounding in exhaustion, and sure he could have probably done with a cuddle, so pissing Owen off was rather counter-productive, more than anything though, he just needed a minute of peace.

Owen's eyebrows shot up a little, slightly taken back, "Right, well, sorry to be such a bloody pain then," he laughed bitterly but stayed put awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do with himself, "Sorry for thinking you'd be happy to see me, not like we haven't seen each other for over a week or anything," Owen had to bite the inside of his cheek when George still didn't reply, didn't even open his eyes, "Guess I shouldn't've got my hopes up considering your lack of effort to call."

That finally made George look. Maybe that's all such a comment was meant to make him do, but it wasn't fair and Owen knew it, "Hey! I'm just as busy as you are. Could've called yourself, y'know?" He sat forward and hung his head into his hands, scrubbing roughly over his sore eyes. The last thing they needed, wanted, was to argue, but a boiling point had finally been reached.

"Why are you making this so difficult?" Owen brought his hands up to rub at his own forehead. Surely George had to know he was being unreasonable; and yet this is the way it had been for weeks. They should be walking into each other's open arms on the far sparser opportunities they get to see one another, but instead there was only ever a rising tension.

"Me making things difficult?" George looked as though he could laugh, finally glaring Owen in the eye. It may not have been the attention Owen had been looking for, but it was better than nothing, "I'm not the one who's come here looking for an argument."

"I'm not looking for that, George!" Owen didn't miss George's wince, his own sternness almost faltering as he saw the repercussions: from his raised voice or choice of name, he wasn't quite sure, "You really think I want to fight with you? I haven't seen you for nearly two weeks, do you know how hard that is?"

"What do you mean 'do I know how hard that is'? Of course I fucking do, Owen, I'm going through it too, remember. And yeah, it is hard," George sighed and finally broke his gaze, eyes falling to stare at the floor between his legs, elbows resting on his thighs as he hunched forward. Retreated in on himself, almost whispering  "It's too hard."

The shocked exhale was ripped from Owen's chest before he could have even tried to stop it, nearly having to take a step back. There was a bite in his words when he spoke again, anger he couldn't quite contain, "What do you want to do then, George, huh? If it's too hard."

"I don't know," George's voice is even more strained than before.

"What do you want to do, George?" Owen asked again, his tone still harsh but he felt he'd almost lost any semblance of power that might have been behind the words, "You want to break up?"

That had gone from ten to a hundred very fast. George's head shot up upon hearing the dreaded suggestion, such disbelief that tears of terror formed in the corners of his eyes in seconds. Owen felt awful instantly. That's not what George wanted, it's not what he wanted, it's not even what he meant to say. If only his brain could catch up with his mouth. He moved to hug George when he could see he was struggling for words, needed to silently prove the remorse he felt for his words. Falling onto the sofa next to George, he quickly pulled the distressed boy's head against his shoulder, holding him tight, assurance that he won't go anywhere.

"No," George eventually managed to choke, breathing hard as he slowly re-gathered himself. They'd had their fair share of arguments before, but never had George actually felt a real threat to their relationship. The reality check had scared him more than he could have been prepared for, "No, I don't want that. Why -why would you say that?"

Owen only squeezed him tighter, internally cursing himself again and again. It wasn't fair of him to try and hurt George like that, to try and scare him, "I didn't mean to, I just..." Owen couldn't quite force himself to ramble an excuse, he already felt like enough of a dick, "I'm sorry."

In hindsight, it had probably been one of their more ridiculous arguments, but it still stuck with George. For the first time, he'd felt genuinely frightened they could have lost what they had. He doesn't let himself feel that anymore, allows himself to trust fully in the stability of everything he has with Owen, no matter how harsh the words get, he knows they're not in danger. And while it may not be a feeling he'll let himself feel, it's not one Owen would let him feel again either. There are words, names, affections reserved for just that as well, ones to cool the embers of their fiery altercations, ones that warm his heart to hear just as much as the dreaded implications of his real name make his stomach drop.

As a captain, Owen is disappointed in him. It's probably worse than Owen being disappointed in him as a partner. So foreign is the feeling that it makes George panic a little, his gut curling in an uncomfortable way as he tries to breathe and settle himself. They both know he didn't play too well, neither of them had their best performance and France had just been the better team in general, but being sent away with a curt, 'I'll talk to you later, George' had made him want to cry than the loss alone did. The day had been stress enough for Owen, first full match captaincy, reeling after a loss two weeks earlier, but now George was the one left in a state of anxiety. He curls up on their shared hotel bed, legs drawing into his chest as he racks his mind through all the mistakes he'd made in the match, all the tackles he'd missed, being subbed off and having to sit and watch a bigger player do a better job than he had been. Maybe he has let Owen down, the whole team has let each other down, but worse than that he's left himself questioning his position, his place on the team. He hasn't been to a place this dark since the disastrous World Cup. All he can do is lie and wait.

Falling asleep hadn't been on his to-do-list, but it seems to have helped alleviate the weight in his chest. It's shifting, a dip in the mattress beside him that finally rouse George from the unexpected slumber. Owen draws him close, George feels their shared body heat mingling, the sound of Owen's heartbeat in his ear becoming stronger the closer they come. Immediately he feels himself relaxing. Owen could berate him for hours, but as long as he held George like this, he wouldn't hear a thing. Given George's performance, that is exactly what he could do. But he doesn't, he never would.

"What're you thinking about, baby?"

George's fingers clench a little in the front of Owen's dress shirt. Normally he'd be berate him for ruining his suit, it's not that difficult to get changed before you lie down, but not tonight, "Are you mad at me?" His voice comes out so small, and he can practically feel Owen's heart seize in his chest.

"Why would I be mad at you, hmm?" Owen asks after a long moment, as though the words had been hard to come by. Maybe George should have know that Owen's own words would have panicked him as much as they did George. This is exactly what he'd feared he would cause, "I'm not mad at you, baby."  

Had it been 'I'm not mad at you' alone, George wouldn't have believed him. Owen knows this. The endearments are necessary, George needs them and Owen needs to give them. 'Baby' makes George feel safe, makes him feel forgiven even when he doesn't need to be. It's something no one else has called him in his life, it's one that belongs to Owen and Owen alone and it can make George's heart swell just perfectly in moments like these. With a soft kiss to the crown of his head, everything feels okay again.

There are derivations from 'baby', too, ones that can be used easily day to day without the weight of such serious connotation, unreservedly loving. Neither of them can quite remember where 'bubba' comes from, one of their mutual endearments that has gotten lost in the vast swathes of their history; anything from mere greeting to one of their strongest comforts. 'Bub', on the other hand, is lazy but warm. It most likely came from when a drunk, teenage Owen, probably too young to be as drunk as he probably was, was too lazy to try and form a second syllable. That alone is proof enough of just how far these names go back and their daily use even today, in any context, shows just how well they have stood the test of time.

His dad had told him on the phone. On the phone of all things. They lived barely a ten minute drive away from each other, he popped over all the time just to give George the most menial of messages and catch up for a while, and yet this huge, devastating news only got a short phone call. Really, it had been too unfair to be angry about it, Mike had sounded just as shaken up as George felt upon hearing it. Even if he had claimed he'd somewhat expected it, George knew him better. George also knew that, at twenty-three, he really shouldn't be taking the news like a little kid who didn't understand what redundancy meant. Well, redundancy, was a pretty timid way of putting it, but George wasn't sure he could quite bring himself to even think the word _fired._ All he had at Bath was his dad, had left the security of his best friend and brother behind in Leicester with only the comfort that he could rely on Mike to take care of him. Now what would there be? Banahan may have fathered the squad pretty well, but he was hardly the real deal.

So George had just driven. Had to get himself out of the stiflingly small city that he could no longer call home and to the only place, the only _person_ he still could. Until there he was, hashing up a parallel park outside Owen's home, driving himself more and more into frustration as the knowledge of his proximity made his need for comfort overwhelming. In the end, he'd just left the car on the slight angle he couldn't manage to fix and fled towards the familiar door. In his hurry, he hadn't even packed himself a bag.

"Hi bub," Owen sounded stunned to see him, George almost always called ahead, and he was almost certain Bath would have training the next day. George is sure Owen's expression would mirror his astounded tone hysterically, but he didn't bother looking.

Owen had an armful of George before he had a moment to even think to ask what had brought him there. All he could do was take a hold of him, right there on the doorstep; the way George weighed in his arms was telling enough that if he hadn't, George surely would have collapsed to the ground. If the spontaneous visit hadn't been unsettling enough, the way George trembled against him, probably from the effort of trying not to cry, had Owen drawing in tight with worry.

"Bubba?"

When George finally spoke, his words were inaudibly muffled against the front of Owen's shoulder, a little dribble dampening the fabric there, but he knew Owen wouldn't mind, "They fired him," George managed to gather the strength to pull his head away from its hiding, grateful for the way Owen wouldn't let his body move an inch from where it was held tightly against his own. With a shuddery breath, he could finally gather the strength to say it, "They fired my dad."

How much did George wish Owen could have looked more shocked? George had been kidding himself when he'd pretended they hadn't been a sham for more than a season. At least Owen didn't put it into words either. Instead, he pulled George inside and shoved a tea into his hands with a tender kiss on the forehead.

"Will you stay?" Owen petted his hair tenderly as George curled against him on the sofa.

"Don't really think I can stay after this," George sighed, head leaning into Owen's affections as he tried not to preen. He probably would have done had he not felt so deflated, "Maybe for a season, give me and dad time to figure something out."

Owen smiled sadly at him, "I meant, will you stay here tonight?" George flushed a little at his misinterpretation, "Don't worry about that yet, bubba, let's just take it a step at a time, okay?"

How much does George wish he could feel bad for the lads? Not much to be honest. Maybe if Priestland hadn't had such a mare -in _his_ old shirt, might George add- they might have been a bit better off than 41-6. Not that George can pretend giving away an interception try is something he'd never done in that very shirt, or that his kicking percentage was often any higher. God, even in his own head George sounds bitter, he really needs to cut it out -he was the one to give it up, after all. Still, no matter how much he ought not be bitter, or how much he misses some of the lads, George can't say he's exactly mad at Owen and his teammates for showing them a battering.

Speaking of those teammates, George really does want to sit there and keep rolling his eyes at the predicament Owen has put him in, he just doesn't want to keep giving Jamie something to smirk at. There were no other wives of girlfriends with them in the bar, despite Owen's promise that George wouldn't be the only outsider. It's not that George would choose to socialise with any of them over the lads, but it would be nice not to feel so out of place.

"So Fordy," Jamie leans forward, finally involving George in the conversation he had more or less managed to tune out. Owen slips an arm up around George's shoulders when he hears the use of the familiar nickname; a silent reminder to his teammates that George is there for a reason, whatever reason Owen chooses, "You still getting picked for your team? Didn't get too much of a taste for the bench against Ireland?"

There's a playful smile cursing Jamie's, too small, mouth which allows George to feel comfortable with the teasing. Two can play at that game, "I dunno, mate," George cocks his head and returns the smile, "You still getting picked for yours?"

The whistles and howls of laughter it receives make George positively beam. If there is one way to play into a team's banter, it's to take the piss out of whoever has been benched that match. And George has had plenty of practice taking the piss out of Jinxy for being benched, it's no new experience for him.

Owen is grinning at him, clearly thrilled with how easily George can slot into his team -probably the two most important things in his life, how cliché. He can't help noticing the way George wavers slightly under all the attention the comment has brought him, however, "You wanna go home, bub?" His speech is a little slow, lazy from the affects of alcohol and dropped low at the attempt to keep himself quiet. George really does roll his eyes again at that; he's designated driver then.

"Nah I'm okay, bubba," George smiles at him and moves to stand up, "I need some water, you want another drink?"

Funny how the addition of one letter can change a meaning entirely. George can't remember a time when he wasn't 'Georgie' to someone or other, he even still let's his mum and dad get away with it from time to time, but from Owen, it's definitely his favourite. It's used for everything, sometimes it feels like it's every other word, but it can still be butterfly inducing -warm and fuzzy. That's just the way Owen is with him, though, the way he always has been. Trying, and succeeding to cram their every interaction with as much care and affection as he can manage. It's a name, the name, George lives to hear from Owen's lips.

There must have been at least a hundred boxes, and that was just from George's house, there was a whole other truck load from Owen's. That man had far too many belongings for George's liking, he'd have to start bumping them off as soon as he could.

"Did you get the last one?" George asked from where he was perched on their (new) garden wall. God, it gave him tingles to actually call it theirs. About five and a half miles out from Milton Keynes, they'd found it. The perfect little house in the perfect little village. As soon as George had re-signed with Leicester they'd started their search. Halfway between Bath and London had still been too much, too long of a commute for both of them, but this, this was doable. About an hour for George and only fifty minutes for Owen -it couldn't be better really.

"Yes I got the last one, lazy," Owen jibed, sauntering out the front door and walking to George. He poked him in the side just to make George squirm from his perch and stand up, falling prey to Owen's hands straight away that had been waiting to take a hold on his hips, "We're finally home, Georgie."

"So we are," George didn't think he'd ever grinned wider, arms coming up to wind around Owen's neck. He pulled Owen down to his level, rising onto his tiptoes just a little so as not to put too much strain on Owen's neck and brushed their noses together lightly. The way his heart thundered with happiness meant he could barely raise his voice above a whisper, "God, we actually are."

Sensing the emotion that was seeping into George's tone, Owen was quick to pull back and flash a cheeky grin, grabbing George closer but instantly diminishing the seriousness they both hated, "I feel like I should carry you over the threshold or something."

"Fuck off," George cackled and shoved lightly at Owen's chest as he moved to get out of his grasp. His brow furrowed when Owen didn't budge. One look at the glint in Owen's eye made his stomach twist. Oh, no, "Nope, no. Get off, you prick."

"Aw Georgie," Owen beamed, but dropped his voice considerably, almost sultry, "You don't really think you can get away, do you?"

It was a struggle, one valiantly fought from both sides, but George ended up slung over Owen shoulder in a fireman's lift. Legs flailing, fists hammering at Owen's solid back as they both giggled uncontrollably. Not exactly a gracious, bridal welcoming into their first home, but it was unquestionably _them._

And that's the very home they sit in now.

It's a welcome break from the unrelenting training in preparation for England's tour to South Africa in just a few weeks. A break long enough that everyone is actually given the opportunity to return to their clubs and spend some time with their families. Owen and George may have, be, their own family in camp, but this house is the puzzle piece they'd felt themselves missing.

George lets out a short laugh at something on the TV. He's not quite sure why it's funny, honestly, even his mind is too tired to be processing things properly at this point; but something tells him he would normally laugh at it. It's the more alert instincts in him that recognise the way Owen is staring at him, unrelentingly, from his spot lounging out at the other end of the sofa. There's a small smile on his face when George looks over, a cider held loosely in his right hand as though he could never feel more comfortable than he does now.

"What?" George laughs, slightly awkward. Owen's eyes don't leave him, even when he knows George has noticed his attention. In many ways, he's still the same cocky kid George had met all those years ago on a sodden rugby league pitch.

"C'mere," Owen requests, opening his legs, bent against the sofa, for George to slot in between. George almost feels as though he should deny him, Owen's arrogance should deserve him some rejection in his life. But George doesn't do that, he never does. In Owen's arms, he can feel at home -the climax to the life they've built together, but not the coda.

From his position, more comfortable than he probably should be against the hard bone of ribs, George leaves a soft kiss to Owen's sternum, rubbing his thumb over it lightly afterward. His eyes look up to Owen, fluttering under his lashes and he smiles when he sees those eyes still haven't left him, "I love you."

"I love you too," Owen squeezes him tight, "My Georgie."               

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was a journey.  
> I really hope you enjoyed reading this one, I genuinely loved writing it -it's been my little source of comfort for the last few weeks.  
> Some of these little scenes have had my intrigue peaked, so, who knows, maybe I'll expand on some of them in future. I have a few other things planned first, though.  
> Kudos and comments are always loved and inspiring :) x


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